


Anticipate

by Sandrine Shaw (Sandrine)



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Alcohol-induced confessions, Banter, First Kiss, M/M, Paddle Party, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-23
Updated: 2020-09-23
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:28:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26324920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sandrine/pseuds/Sandrine%20Shaw
Summary: "The man of the hour hiding on the porch at his own paddle party? Kind of rude, wouldn't you say, sir?"
Relationships: Brad Colbert/Nate Fick
Comments: 10
Kudos: 94
Collections: pine4pine 2020





	Anticipate

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Hyx_Sydin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hyx_Sydin/gifts).



> Thanks to glitterburn for the beta! <3

Nate can already feel the echoes of tomorrow's headache pounding in the back of his head.

The air smells fresh and cool when he steps out onto the porch. He cranes his head back to stretch his neck, pushing through the momentary sense of vertigo. It's a cloudless night, the stars bright against the black firmament. After weeks of looking at them over Kuwait and Iraq, the constellations in the Californian sky seem foreign and out of place.

Nate's current level of inebriation is entirely Ray's fault. 

He knows he should have stopped four tequila shots ago, but Ray kept topping up his glass and taunting him with how it was _whiskey-tango-motherfucking-ass-rude_ of Nate to deny his soon-to-be-former men the opportunity to drink with him one last time when he was already being the rude liberal-ass pussy who was leaving them knowing full well that they'd be fucked without him. Quote, unquote. Minus a few of Ray's more colorful insults that Nate's too drunk to remember verbatim. Never mind that Ray's quitting the Corps too and has no leg to stand on when it comes to guilt-tripping Nate, or that Nate should have known better than to let himself be provoked like that in the first place. It's unbecoming to an officer. 

Probably a good thing he isn't an officer anymore.

And it's not like he's unsteady on his feet or slurring his words or anything that bad. He can hold his liquor well enough. He's still sober enough to know that he's had a few too many, and he can still think _inebriation_ without mentally stumbling over the syllables, and he can do an impression of Ray that's passable enough to wrangle an approving half-smile from Brad. He's really not any drunker than he regularly gets at his sister's birthday parties, or during family Thanksgiving dinners. The difference is, on those occasions, he can't put his foot in his mouth and accidentally let it slip to his team leader that he's had all kinds of improper thoughts about him.

After doing a quick risk-evaluation on the chance of that happening, taking into account the way his tongue was getting looser by the minute and how he kept instinctively drifting to Brad's side, Nate had decided a strategic retreat was probably the wisest choice until he got his shit together. Out here on his own, the risk of doing something monumentally stupid beyond even Captain America levels of FUBAR is much lower than back in Mike's narrow kitchen, standing next to Brad with their arms brushing against each other every time one of them shifted.

Nate leans against the sturdy wooden railing and closes his eyes, enjoying the cool breeze of night air hitting his face and leaving a pleasant chill that doesn't bite his skin the way it would at home. He's going to miss California weather when he's back on the East Coast.

"The man of the hour hiding on the porch at his own paddle party? Kind of rude, wouldn't you say, sir?"

He startles at the sound of Brad's voice. There was no sound of footfalls to warn Nate, no creaking floorboards. Brad even managed to open the squeaking old door noiselessly. That's an impressive amount of stealth, and one that's usually reserved for hostile territory. 

Nate schools his expression into one of mild amusement before he turns around. "If I really were hiding from a platoon of Recon Marines, Brad, I can assure you that I'd be smart enough to choose a better place than Gunny's front porch."

Brad shrugs. "Civilians aren't known for their strategic thinking." 

The minuscule smile tugging at the corners of his mouth could be wry or teasing, but the sodium glare of the porch light turns his features softer and makes the smile seem warmer than it probably is. A stab of longing makes Nate's chest tight. It's a familiar feeling by now, but not something Nate ever got used to or learned how to ignore.

There's something about having Brad's undivided attention that's always been a little overwhelming. He still vividly remembers the first time, back at Mathilda, like it was yesterday. Cool blue eyes appraising him, and Nate hadn't been able to shake the sense that they found him lacking. He likes to think he managed to change Brad's first impression of him during their tour, but sometimes, he isn't so sure. In Iraq, they developed the kind of easy non-verbal conversation that almost felt like a _connection_. At times, it made Nate imagine that, through all the shit rolling downhill, through the weariness and his increasing frustration with command, things were going to be fine as long as Brad had his six. The few times they'd clashed, when Brad made it pointedly clear that Nate didn't have his support, stung all the worse. But that was Iraq, and what's real – or feels real – in theater when you're bone-tired and high on adrenaline and comradeship doesn't necessarily hold true back stateside.

Nate shakes off the nostalgia, but the time to make a snappy rejoinder has passed.

"Here." Brad holds out a mug. When Nate gives it a skeptical look and doesn't immediately reach for it, Brad rolls his eyes and pushes it into Nate's hands. It's warm against his palms, and the heady smell of coffee hits his nose. "Thought you could use some of that."

"That obvious, huh?" 

Brad's not wrong. The coffee is heaven-sent. It's hot and strong, hitting Nate right between the eyes and cutting through the haze of tequila-flavored drowsiness. He doesn't mean to make an appreciative sound at the first taste of it, definitely doesn't mean to make one that's altogether too indecent, closer to an orgasmic moan than an appropriate 'coffee is nice' kind of noise.

Out of the corner of his eyes, he sees Brad's eyebrows go up, and Nate feels his face heat. 

"Anticipating my CO's needs is one of my many talents." 

Beneath the sarcasm, there's an undercurrent in Brad's tone that could almost be flirtatious. Nate's heard it before – or imagined he heard it, anyway – in Kuwait, in Iraq, on libo before they came back home. That same tone Nate remembers from when Brad leaned out of his humvee's window and said, _"Not to get homoerotic about this, but I could kiss you"_.

In theatre, on the road to Ar Rifa, it was easy for Nate to grin and dismiss it, tell himself it was just Brad being Brad. Even if he'd meant it, nothing was gonna come out of it. Not in the middle of a war zone where they might get their heads blown off any second, not with Brad being his TL and Nate being responsible for his men. If Brad had meant it. And he didn't. Couldn't possibly have, because Nate was one hundred percent certain that Brad didn't feel that way about him, and ignoring it was the best way to handle it.

It's harder now, under the dim lights of Mike's porch, standing too close. Alone in the dark, just the two of them. The buzz of tequila makes everything seem sharper and softer at once, and Nate's intoxicated enough to question the established rules of engagement.

"I'm not your CO anymore," he points out. 

His lips feel dry and cracked, almost as bad as they were under the blistering desert sun. He wets them with his tongue and looks away, but not quick enough that he doesn't notice the way Brad's gaze flickers to his mouth. In Iraq, Nate always knew when Brad was looking at him – a kind of sense he developed fast and wrote off as good situational awareness. It's not just that, though, Nate realizes now. Maybe it never was. He feels the weight of those frosty eyes on him heavy like a touch.

"No, I guess you're not," Brad says, slowly, considering, like Nate hadn't just stated the obvious. 

Nate's heart races so fast it feels like it wants to jump out of his chest. And isn't that funny: He's been trained to stay calm and keep his cool in the middle of mortar fire or driving into a kill zone. He once stepped outside the command vehicle during an ambush, and his pulse was beating far steadier then than it does now, standing next to Brad in the perfect safety of the Californian night.

Well. Perhaps not perfectly safe.

"I'm gonna miss you." 

Nate says it quickly, before he can stop himself, because he knows he's going to regret it if he doesn't. The tequila makes him bold and the coffee makes him jittery, a combination that invites recklessness. 

He watches for Brad's reaction, surveying the narrowing of his eyes, the curl of his lips. Brad's eyebrow goes up again, and Nate's stomach sinks. 

"Will you, sir? Even degenerates like Ray and Trombley? Not being subjected to their presence in the future seems like the only upside of going native with the pussy liberal civilians."

Right. Clearly, Brad has no intention of letting Nate get away with plausible deniability. He's under no illusions that Brad really misunderstood his meaning, but there's a moment when he considers the possibility that it's kindness that made Brad deliberately steer the conversation in another direction. Maybe this is Brad's way of letting him down easy.

Yeah, that's bullshit. 

Brad's many things, but he isn't _kind_. He certainly doesn't believe in avoidance and subtlety in the name of making things easy. Given the choice, he'd always go for the blunt truth. It's among the long list of the things Nate appreciates about him. What he appreciates less is how Brad makes everything a fucking test.

Brad's smile is sharp, and there's a challenge gleaming in his eyes. 

"I'll be sure to let Ray know that you're considering handing in your resignation just for him," Nate says wryly. He waits just long enough for the shutter of disappointment on Brad's face before he adds, "And that's not what I meant. You know that."

"What did you mean, then?"

Annoyance prickles in Nate's chest like needles, and he's about to call this off, give Brad a bland brush-off and pretend later that it was only the tequila talking. But Brad's still looking at Nate with the same searing intensity and the air feels heavy with expectation. And maybe Nate was wrong all along. Maybe it's not a test. Maybe Brad needs Nate to spell it out, because out of the two of them, Nate's the one risking less. His reputation and their comradeship, sure, and he'd hate to lose that, but it's not Nate's career on the line. If he's wrong about this, he'll walk away with a bruised ego and maybe a bruised jaw at most, but nothing worse than that.

He puts down the empty mug and straightens, looking square at Brad. "I mean you, Brad. I'm going to miss you. Not as my team leader. Just you."

Brad takes two steps towards him. At his feet, the mug clatters, but neither of them breaks eye-contact to look down. Nate's pulse races when Brad reaches out to brace himself on the railing on either side of Nate, effectively caging him in. 

Somewhere in the back of Nate's mind, his fight-or-flight instincts rear to life at the sense of being trapped, a rush of adrenaline so sharp that Nate can taste it. They aren't touching, but Brad's so close now that Nate can feel the heat radiating off his body, can smell the spicy hint of aftershave in the air, and he has to force himself to keep from swaying towards Brad. It costs him more restraint than it did not to deck Griego at Al Kut.

He tilts his head back and holds Brad's gaze steady.

"Just so we're clear, sir. Are you saying you would like me to keep anticipating your needs?" 

The line is so obviously and deliberately terrible, it makes Nate snort. This time, there's absolutely no doubt about the flirtation in Brad's voice. His face could almost be impassive, if it wasn't for the hint of a smile teasing at his lips, plain to see if you knew him well enough. 

And Nate does know him well enough, he suddenly realizes with absolute clarity. 

"I'm saying I'd like to have another coffee with you tomorrow morning. And on future mornings, possibly. And while you're at it, maybe drop the 'sir'."

"Solid copy, sir," Brad fires back. Then, softer, "Nate."

The name rolls easily off his tongue, familiar, as if he's already said it a million times before, and yet the novelty of it sends a pleasant thrill down Nate's spine. It's stupid. It's just his name. But it's _Brad_ saying his name, and it feels shockingly intimate.

He's so caught up in the moment that he almost misses it when Brad moves. That final inch of space between them shrinks to nothing, and then Brad's lips are on Nate's, firm and relentless, like it's his mission to stake his claim on this new AO. He tastes like beer and onions – hardly the best combination in the world, but it's Brad, and they're kissing, and Nate has wanted this for longer than he's comfortable admitting, even in the privacy of his own mind.

It's over too soon. 

Loud noises from inside interrupt them. The sound of laughter, and Ray calling out a string of insults – far enough away from where Nate and Brad are standing, safely separated by a closed door, but an uncomfortable reminder that they're still in the company of an entire platoon of Recon Marines. 

Brad steps back and lets go of the railing, his arms falling away from where they were bracketing Nate. 

All at once, the air around Nate grows perceptibly colder, the chill sending goosebumps along his arms. Confused, he watches Brad bend down next to him. He tries and fails not to stare at the sliver of naked skin where Brad's shirt hitches up, the edge of his tattoo peeking out as Brad picks up the mug from where it lies turned over at Nate's feet.

"Better go check on those morons before Ray burns down Gunny's house," Brad says when he straightens. He hands Nate the mug with a grin. "Guess I'll be getting you a refill in the morning, then."

Nate flushes at the implications. "I'd... like that."

"Always happy to serve," Brad quips.

Nate gives him a deadpan look and flips him off. 

Brad's laughter lasts all the way back inside, warm and full-bodied, and worth all the headaches Nate's hangover will bring in the morning.


End file.
